His penthouse wasn't a home.It was a display case—cold, flawless, and lifeless.And Elara Larsen? She was the newest exhibit.
The sleek black Rolls-Royce stopped at the foot of a Manhattan skyscraper, its glass spire cutting into the night sky like a blade.
Now, as Damien Vance guided her into the private elevator, her heart hammered violently.Each beat was a plea for escape, a prayer to wake up from the nightmare she'd signed into.
His palm pressed against the small of her back—a silent claim that burned hotter than fire through her thin coat.
When the elevator doors slid open, the world she stepped into stole her breath.
Marble. Glass. Gold.The air smelled expensive. Cold. Controlled.
Her heels clicked sharply against the polished floor, each sound too loud in the vast emptiness.The city glittered through the towering windows, its pulse alive and free—everything she no longer was.
A gilded cage.That's all it was. A prison disguised in luxury.
Damien stood behind her, silent and steady, his presence thick with ownership.
She clutched her purse tighter. It was a pathetic shield, but it was all she had left of herself.
She was his wife now.Bound by ink, not love.Her freedom traded for her father's salvation.
"Welcome home," his voice came low, smooth, and threaded with dark amusement that curled against her skin.
He gestured toward the pristine living space—leather furniture, modern art, and shelves lined with bottles that probably cost more than her old apartment.
"This is where you belong now."
Her throat tightened. Anger and fear tangled together, clawing at her composure.She wanted to tell him she belonged nowhere near him, that he could keep his golden prison.
But her father's voice echoed again in her mind—broken, desperate.Larsen Industries is finished.
The memory stole her breath.She'd made her choice. She'd signed her soul away.And now, she was here, in the belly of the beast.
He turned and walked down a long hallway, his stride confident, predatory.
Elara forced herself to follow, her legs shaky but her chin lifted in a show of defiance she didn't quite feel.
He stopped at a pair of tall, black double doors and pushed them open.
Her stomach flipped.
The bedroom was massive—dominated by a dark wooden bed dressed in white sheets.The space screamed control, discipline, and something darker beneath.
A single chair by the window waited, next to a decanter of amber liquid. It felt deliberate, staged.Like he'd planned to sit there and watch her unravel.
"This is our room," he said, clipped and final. "There's no guest room. You sleep where I sleep."
Her pulse stuttered. "I—I thought I'd have my own space," she managed, her voice thin and trembling.
His gray eyes hardened. "You thought wrong."
He stepped closer, forcing her to tilt her head back just to meet his gaze."You're my wife. You don't get space. You get me."
Her chest tightened, breath catching in her throat.The words were a cage all their own.
Before she could reply, he pulled a sleek phone from his pocket and held it out."Your personal number is disconnected. This is yours now."
She hesitated, then took it. The phone was cool and lifeless in her hand.
When she unlocked it, her heart sank.One contact.Damien.
That was it.
No father. No friends. No one.
"You can't do this," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of it. "You can't cut me off from everyone."
"I already have," he said, tone flat, merciless."Your life belongs to me now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
She'd been his assistant for two years—calm, capable, unbreakable.She wouldn't crumble now.
But as his gaze swept over her, cold and sharp as a blade, she realized just how powerless she truly was.
"Shower," he ordered, his voice low. He nodded toward the bathroom door. "Then join me in bed."
Her body froze."Now?" The word escaped before she could stop it, small and fragile.
His lips curved, cruel and knowing."Yes. Don't make me repeat myself."
Every instinct screamed for her to run, but she couldn't move. His eyes held her there, unblinking, unrelenting.
Finally, she turned away, each step toward the bathroom heavier than the last.The door shut behind her with a soft click.
For the first time that night, she could breathe.
The bathroom gleamed with marble and gold, elegant and hollow.Elara twisted the shower handle, letting the roar of water drown her thoughts.
She stripped and stepped under the stream, the heat biting her skin.She welcomed the pain—it was real, unlike everything else tonight.
Her fingers scrubbed at her skin as if she could erase the ink of the contract, the sound of his voice, the image of his eyes.But nothing washed away the truth.
She was his.And tonight, he would take what he believed he owned.
Her thoughts raced, looping through the day's chaos—her father's trembling voice, Damien's offer that wasn't really an offer, and her trembling hand as she signed her name.
She hated him.
His arrogance. His power. The control he wielded so effortlessly.
And yet—God help her—a tiny, buried part of her responded to it.To him.
The thought sickened her.
When the water finally turned cold, she stepped out and faced the mirror.
The woman staring back was pale, haunted, unrecognizable.Her green eyes looked hollow. Her wet auburn hair clung to her shoulders like a shroud.
She wrapped herself in a towel and slipped into her own modest pajamas—soft cotton shorts and a tank top.A small act of rebellion.A small reminder that she still belonged to herself.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.
And froze.
Damien was already in bed.The sheets rested low on his waist, his bare chest catching the dim light in sharp lines of muscle and shadow.
He looked both divine and dangerous, a god carved from control.
His gaze slid over her, slow and deliberate, and his lips pressed into a thin, displeased line.
He nodded toward the chair in the corner. A black silk negligee draped over it like sin itself.
"I bought that for you," he said, his tone dark. "You'll wear what I give you. Now, take those off."
Elara's stomach dropped. Her fingers clenched the hem of her tank top.
"These are mine," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm comfortable in them."
His eyes hardened, storm-gray and unforgiving.
He rose from the bed, moving with quiet, lethal grace.The silk sheets fell away as he crossed the room in three long strides.
"You don't get to choose," he murmured, his voice a velvet blade. "You signed the contract. You agreed to obey. Take. Them. Off."
Her pulse thundered.
She wanted to fight him—to claw, to scream—but his stare pinned her in place, stealing the strength from her limbs.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted her shirt and pulled it over her head. It fell to the floor, silent and final.
Then the shorts followed.Her body shook under the weight of his gaze, heat and humiliation warring in her chest.
"Better," he murmured, his tone rough, low. He reached out, tracing a finger lightly over her shoulder strap. The touch made her breath hitch.
"But not enough. The negligee. Now."
Her eyes burned. She hated him for touching her.She hated herself more for the flicker of warmth that betrayed her.
Turning away, she grabbed the silk from the chair and slipped it over her trembling body.It clung to her like a whisper, the thin lace offering no comfort, no modesty.
When she turned back, his gaze darkened further—satisfaction, hunger, and something possessive glinting behind the calm.
"Get in bed," he said softly, command buried in every syllable.
Her legs moved before her mind caught up. She climbed onto the bed, the sheets cool against her skin.
Damien followed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, the air between them thick.
His hand found her wrist—firm, unyielding, not cruel, but absolute.
"Tonight," he murmured, voice low and final,"we begin."